"And to think it's our very last night!" murmured Bobby, her chin on her palm. "I'll never bear 'La Paloma' that I sha'n't think of this trip and of you."
Percival dared not answer. He had reached that stage when, according to the philosopher, the moonlight is a pleasing fever, the stars are letters, the flowers ciphers, and the air is coined into song. He regarded her gaze as she bent it upon the stars as the most exquisitely pensive thing he had ever behold.
"My! but there are some dandy billiard-shots up there!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Do you see that lovely carom over there beyond the Dipper?"
"I am not thinking of caroms," he said impatiently, "I am thinking of you."
"What have I done now?" she asked indignantly.
"You've made me forget that there's anything else in the whole universe but just you!"
"And now you've got to begin to remember," said Bobby, sympathetically.
He searched her face for a clue as to what was passing in her mind, but he found none.
"You are a most awfully baffling girl," he said. "Sometimes I can't determine whether you are subtle or merely ingenuous."
"I'd give it up," advised Bobby.